


Peacemakers

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate blessed are the peacemakers, Arthur Dutch friendship, Arthur Whump, Could be ArthurxDutch, Father-Son Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I fixed that, Kidnapping, Remember when Arthur was kidnapped by Colm, Rescue, and nobody cared, hurt Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:24:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Colm kidnapped Arthur to hurt Dutch, assuming he would have enough time to kill him slowly before anyone even knew to start looking. But Dutch won't leave Arthur behind, and he won't stop searching. No matter what Arthur's fading hope is telling him.





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur had a bad feeling about the whole thing from the beginning. Sure, peace between Dutch and Colm was exactly what they needed right now, and he knew Dutch was willing to listen to reason, but Colm? 

 

Colm wanted war and chaos. Dutch had killed his brother. It didn’t matter how long ago it had been, how young and stupid they were back then, Colm wasn’t one to let things go. 

 

Still, they had to try. And if something went wrong, if Colm so much as looked at Dutch the wrong way, Arthur would take care of it. If peace wouldn’t work, Arthur would take out Colm right here and now. 

 

He could hardly hear what they were saying down in the valley. It didn’t look like much. Dutch looked angry, wary, Micah stood a few paces behind him, watching silently. Colm just looked smug, like this was exactly what he wanted. 

 

This wasn’t right. 

 

There was something else at play here, something Colm wasn’t saying. He couldn’t call out a warning without blowing his cover and getting everybody killed, but surely Dutch saw it too, right? Colm’s smirk, the glint in his eye, the way he moved like he’d already gotten what he wanted.

 

Or maybe it was just Arthur, paranoid and overthinking, the distance between him and Dutch making him see things. 

 

There was something behind him, quick and silent, and Arthur pulled away from the scope just in time to see a looming figure bring down the side of his gun. Pain exploded in the side of his head and Arthur's world went black. 

  
********

 

The whole thing had been...odd. Dutch had been just reigning in his anger, held back only by the vulnerability he felt facing Colm without a weapon. Arthur’s doubts, justified as they were, were getting to him. 

 

It was hardly peace talks at all, more reminiscing than anything. Small talk, droning and pointless. Like Colm was...stalling. 

 

And then it was over. Colm and his boys rode off and Dutch returned to Micah, the two gangs departing without any progress. Other than nobody being shot, which Dutch had to admit was a first. Maybe that was progress. 

 

They rode back to the crossroads in silence, Dutch lost in thought. He and Colm and both taken so much from each other, fought like savages for so many years, the idea of peace was almost unreal. 

 

“Dutch?” Micah’s voice snapped him back to reality, the other man watching him questioningly. “You think we should just go?” 

 

Dutch realized that Arthur hadn’t joined them yet. There was no sign of him coming down the mountain, and Dutch felt a twinge in his gut. 

 

“No,” he said, pulling the reins of his horse. “I’ll go see what’s taking him. Wait here.” 

 

Micah shrugged. “He might have just wandered off.” 

 

“It was his idea to meet back here,” Dutch reminded him. Micah was talented and useful, but sometimes he was too careless for anyone’s good. 

 

Dutch started up the mountain, The Count easily carrying him over the jagged rocks. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but he was expecting Arthur to at least  _ be  _ there. 

 

For a split second, Dutch thought Micah was right, and Arthur had simply wandered off, maybe went to follow the O'driscolls. But then he heard a soft grunt to his left and saw Arthur’s horse, uneasy and fidgeting without a rider.  

 

And then, laying by the cliff’s edge, Dutch spotted Arthur’s gun, and his mind went into a spiraling panic. 

 

“ _ Arthur!”  _

 

He was off The Count in a second, sprinting to the edge of the cliffside and peering over the now empty valley, scanning for any sign of Arthur. There was nothing, no footprints, no horse tracks, like he’d just disappeared. Vanished into thin air. 

 

“Arthur!” He kept shouting, hoping desperately for a voice to call back to him. “Arthur, answer me!” 

 

Colm. Colm had taken him to get at Dutch. That had been his plan all along. How had he been so  _ stupid?  _ Colm didn’t want peace, he wanted pain, he wanted Dutch to suffer. And he knew taking Arthur, hurting Arthur, was how to do it. 

 

There was the thundering of hooves and Dutch spun around, half hoping to see Arthur, but it was only Micah. 

 

“They took him,” Dutch said before the other man could even open his mouth. “It was a trap, they  _ took  _ Arthur.” 

 

T he initial panic was melting, leaving Dutch raging and furious. He was shaking, pacing the cliff wildly, his mind racing with violent, unhelpful thoughts. 

 

Micah’s face fell as realization dawned. Dutch had to look away, had to remind himself that this wasn’t Micah’s fault. Dutch shouldn’t have left Arthur alone, he should have backed out of there as soon as he felt something was off. 

 

And now Arthur could be dead, his body dumped carelessly into some river. Dutch suddenly felt like he was going to vomit. 

 

What right did Colm have, stealing Arthur like he was some kind of item? Playing with Dutch’s emotions when he was already so close to cracking under the stress of keeping his family safe. 

 

“Dutch,” Micah said, his voice doing very little for Dutch’s rising dread. “We’ll find him.” 

 

Dutch stopped his pacing and nodded, more to himself than to Micah, and stalked back to his horse. He’d find Arthur, and he’d make Colm regret ever laying a hand on him.

  
  


********

 

Arthur thought he might have been shot. It was impossible to tell, never conscious long enough for a full assessment of his injuries. And each time he awoke, the pain just seemed to get worse and worse. 

 

They’d beaten him the first time he opened his eyes, kicking, punching, hitting, all while laughing and yelling insults his sluggish brain couldn’t quite comprehend. 

 

The second time, he’d been alone, and he’d bolted. Stumbling and crawling through the grass, his battered body screaming at him to curl up and fall into painless oblivion, a part of him had thought he was going to get away. He needed to get to Dutch, to tell him it was a trap, and kick Micah’s ass for getting them into this. 

 

And then he’d heard shouting, none of the voices particularly alarmed, and his hope started to fade. There was a loud sound he couldn’t identify, and white stars danced across his vision. His legs gave out and he hit the ground, his face in the dirt. 

 

Arthur rolled over onto his back, hissing in pain as he moved his aching body, and watched as three men hurried over to stand over him. 

 

“Is he dead?” One of them asked, excited, like they were toying with a wounded animal. 

 

Arthur groaned. “Not yet.” 

 

They laughed, hooting and grinning down at him, and Arthur flinched when a gun was waved in his face. 

 

“Of course not,” the one with the gun sneered. Arthur tensed automatically, struggling to sit up no matter how useless it was. “But I will.” 

 

White hot pain exploded in his shoulder and Arthur screamed, his own cries drowned out by the laughter that surrounded him. 

 

The third time, Arthur struggled to regain consciousness. He pulled himself out of the inky blackness, pried his eyes open, and as his shoulder immediately exploded into agony he quickly wished he hadn’t. 

 

He’d definitely been shot. Arthur, unfortunately, had enough experience to know that the bullet was still lodged in his shoulder, rather than gone all the way through which would have been infinitely less painful. 

 

At least this way it could take longer for him to bleed now. Except he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Right now, any escape from the pain seemed like a blessing. 

 

They’d slung Arthur over the back of a horse, that much he could tell by the constant movement provoking his injury. The heat bore down on him, mixing with the blood loss and bruising to leave him sweaty, dizzy, and sick. 

 

Arthur swallowed, determined not to throw up all over himself, and tried to ignore the throbbing, burning pain spreading throughout his entire body.

 

He must have blacked out, because the next thing Arthur knew the sun was gone, replaced with frigid cold and rotting wood walls. He’d been stripped of his coat, belt, and shoes, left alone and defenseless. 

 

Arthur tried to move, quickly regretting it when pain shot through his side, making him cry out in agony to the empty room. His legs were held above his head, tied together tightly, his arms hanging limply inches above the ground. 

 

Colm had tied him upside down, like a slaughtered farm animal waiting to be butchered. 

 

The cellar door ahead of him opened, letting in the silver moonlight, and Arthur saw Colm standing at the top of the stairs. He held up the gentle glow of his lantern, smiled, and made his way down. 

 

Arthur tried to push down his fear, to meet Colm’s eyes like Dutch had in that valley, but he couldn’t stop his heart from pounding or his clammy hands from shaking. 

 

“Arthur Morgan,” Colm greeted, setting down his lantern, his other hand holding a bowl and spoon. “Good to see you.” 

 

“Hello, Colm.” Talking made Arthur’s throat burn, and he swallowed furiously against the dryness. 

 

“How’s the wound?” 

 

“I hardly feel it,” Arthur lied. He felt the pain, felt the blood plastered to his skin, and he felt the fever spreading through his body. 

 

“You will.” Colm smirked, gathering a spoonful of whatever was in the bowl and bringing it towards Arthur, who grabbed Colm’s wrist inches from his face. He pushed, shoving as hard as he could, hating how weak he was, until Colm finally relented. “Septic. It ain’t nice.”

 

Colm started pacing the cellar, slow and deliberate, gently scraping the side of the bowl with his spoon. He looked back at Arthur, still grinning. 

 

“See where Dutch gets you? Him and his famous  _ charisma? _ ” Colm kicked out, his boot hitting Arthur’s injured shoulder, and he cried out through clenched teeth. 

 

“He’s going to  _ kill you, _ ” Arthur muttered, more to himself than to Colm. Remembering that Dutch and the gang were coming, that they were going to put a bullet between Colm’s eyes might be the only thing that would get him through this. Assuming he survived at all. 

 

Colm laughed, raspy and taunting, and Arthur flinched. “Dutch ain’t coming for you, **_boy._** He doesn’t even know I have you. But when he finds out...he’s going to be so _mad,_ Arthur.” 

 

Arthur furrowed his brow, trying to understand, his mind focused on the idea that  _ Dutch wasn’t coming.  _ Of course Dutch was coming. He wouldn’t leave Arthur here. 

 

“You only met with him to get me?” 

 

“Of course.” Colm was in his face, and Arthur could do nothing but hang there and watch him. “In a few days, after my boys have killed you, we’ll dump your body somewhere for him to find you. And then he’ll come  _ raging  _ over here, ready to kill me...and I’ll make sure the law gets him.” 

 

Colm laughed in his face, and before Arthur could say anything, a fist collided with his chest, another with his ribs. Colm slammed his fist onto Arthur’s abused body, over and over again, and Arthur couldn’t do anything to stop him.

 

Colm might have said something, but Arthur couldn’t tell. His vision was blackening, the pain was unbearable, even after the onslaught stopped. He coughed, weakly, each gasping breath turning into a pathetic groan.. 

 

Colm’s lips were moving, but Arthur didn’t hear him. His ears were ringing, his shoulder on on fire. He couldn’t stop shaking, no matter how much it hurt his tortured body.

 

Colm was gone, taking the lantern with him as he travelled back up the stairs. He turned and gave one last smile, before shutting the cellar doors and leaving Arthur in darkness. 

  
  


********

 

Arthur lost track of how long he spent in that cellar. He lost count of the beatings, but he was sure they were becoming more frequent. Early on, he’d done his best to stay strong, like Dutch would have wanted

 

But eventually, as the pain got worse, he couldn’t stop himself from screaming. He was pleading and begging for mercy, for them to let him go before he could stop himself, his tongue running without his mind’s permission. 

 

They never listened. Nobody showed him mercy, nobody let him go. The beatings were growing shorter, only because Arthur was becoming too weak to stay awake for long. Sobs and shivers wracked his body, pain overtaking him each time he opened his eyes. 

 

Dutch wasn’t coming. 

 

Arthur realized that after what he was fairly certain was the second day in the cellar. The O’driscolls didn’t seem worried, Colm’s men having the time of their life. Dutch didn’t know where he was. If he even was looking, there would be no way to find him in time. 

 

The O’driscolls were sure to remind him of that each time they came down to the cellar, telling him that Dutch didn’t care, that’d he’d forgotten about him. That Arthur had been left behind. 

 

At first he’d argued, refusing to hear them. But now, too weak to fight back, he just hung there and let them torture him. The idea that Dutch didn’t care, that Dutch wasn’t even trying, was worse than any wound. 

 

“Why don’t we just put him out of his misery?” One of the O'driscolls asked. He shoved Arthur, causing him to groan as he swayed on the ropes. They were getting bored of him, of beating the same half-corpse day after day. 

 

Arthur was almost inclined to agree with them, that he’d lost his purpose. That they’d practically killed him already and might as well get it over with. But he said nothing, only sucking in a shaky breath and staring blankly ahead. 

 

Through the open cellar doors, Arthur thought he heard something. Gunshots, followed by yelling from the O'driscoll boys. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, too tired to focus, but he watched as his tormentors grabbed their weapons and left him behind, shutting him up in darkness once again. 

 

The closed doors muffled what little he could hear, and he was left in a silent, colorless void. He didn’t care what was happening outside, and he doubted he’d be around long enough to find out. 

 

Arthur thought he might be dying. Right here and now, slipping away silently, still hanging from the ceiling. He closed his eyes and waited, waited to finally be free from the horrible pain, to escape the endless torture. 

 

He heard the cellar doors open again, and if he had the energy Arthur would have groaned. Why couldn’t they just let him die? 

 

“Oh,  _ god.”  _

 

Dutch? No, that couldn’t be right. Dutch wasn’t coming. Dutch didn’t know where Arthur was, he wasn’t even looking. 

 

“No,  _ Arthur _ . Please, god, please,  _ no…”  _

 

The voice that sounded like Dutch was coming closer, and Arthur prepared himself for another attack. 

 

There was a hand on his chest, slow and almost gentle, but that didn’t make it any less painful. Arthur let out a small gasp, trying to twist away, and the hand quickly retracted. 

 

“Oh, thank god.” There was pulling at the restraints on his ankles, then the ropes were suddenly undone and Arthur was falling. 

 

There were hands on the back of his neck and chest, keeping his head from colliding with the ground, following him down. It slowed his descenet, but the movement still jostled all of his countless injuries.

 

Arthur cried out, choking on his own gasps, as he was gently lowered the rest of the way down. 

 

“Oh god, Arthur,” the voice above him said. “You’re ok, son. I got you, you’re going to be ok. I found you.” 

 

Arthur could still barely hear him, unable to focus on anything other than the blinding pain rendering him completely useless. The sweat soaked cloth around his head was carefully removed, replaced by a cold hand on his forehead. 

 

“Arthur. Open your eyes.  _ Please _ , son. Look at me.” 

 

That was Dutch. Dutch had found him, he’d come for him, and Arthur was scaring him. With strength he didn’t think he’d still had, Arthur gradually peeled his eyes open. It felt like someone had jammed two burning hot knives into his skull, and he choked back another cry of pain. 

 

There was something hovering above him, something that slowly came into focus as Dutch’s worried face. 

 

Dutch’s face was unshaven, giving Arthur the vague impression he’d been gone at least a few days, and there were heavy bags under his tired eyes. Something in Dutch loosened when he met Arthur’s gaze. He looked slightly relieved, despite how hard it was for Arthur to keep his eyes open. 

 

“That’s it, son. Stay awake for me, Arthur. Stay with me.” Dutch turned away and yelled something Arthur was too tired to focus on, but it was loud enough to make him flinch. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Arthur. We’re going to help you, I promise.” 

 

Arthur nodded, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. He managed to speak, his voice sounding awful to his own ears. “I...I told you it was a set up…” 

 

Dutch nodded, silencing Arthur. “I know. I know, Arthur. God, I’m so sorry. You’re safe now.” 

 

“You...you came for me...” 

 

“Of course I did,” Dutch said, his frown deepening. He furrowed his brow, watching Arthur with rising concern. “You knew I would, didn’t you, son?” 

 

Arthur swallowed, feeling his strength slipping. “They said…” 

 

“They  _ lied,”  _ Dutch snapped, his sudden anger taking a nearly delirious Arthur by surprise. “Arthur, I never stopped looking for you. Do you understand me? Not for one goddamn second.” 

 

“Dutch--” 

 

“I killed them, Arthur,” Dutch said. “Everyone who hurt you, they’re dead. Every single one. And I’m going to hunt Colm down and he is going to pay. I promise you that.” 

 

Arthur wanted to nod, wanted to thank Dutch, to apologize for ever doubting him, to promise him that, deep down, he’d known Dutch was coming. 

 

But it was getting harder to breathe. The pain in his shoulder was growing worse, spreading through his tortured body, and he felt a veil of darkness threatening to overtake him. 

 

“I’m...I’m not doing so well, Dutch,” was all he managed to say. Dutch’s jaw clenched and he nodded. 

 

There were footsteps on the cellar stairs, voices that sounded vaguely familiar, and Dutch was looking at him again. His lips moved frantically but Arthur, losing the fight, couldn’t hear him as his eyes slipped shut and everything faded. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch got Arthur away from the O'driscolls, bringing him back home safely. If Arthur could only realize he's safe, they might be able to finally move past this.

Three days. 

Arthur had been taken three days ago, and on the dawn of the fourth day, though Dutch would never admit it aloud, he was beginning to lose hope. 

Colm was ruthless and bloodthirsty, he’d seen it first hand with poor Annabel, and the thought of Arthur at his mercy...Dutch hadn’t slept since the meeting. He’d gathered as many gang members as he could spare and they’d rode out, hunting down O’driscoll men. 

Usually, they were everywhere, and not at all hard to find. Colm’s men were loud and entitled, and most days it was hard to take a ride without running into a few. In Dutch’s experience the cowards were always willing to squeal, valuing their own pathetic lives over loyalty. 

Now, however, when information was so desperately needed, the roads were quiet. And the few men they did find swore up and down they didn’t know anything about a kidnapping or a location, right up until their last breath. 

Killing the uncooperative O’driscolls was doing nothing for his anxiety, rising with each passing second Arthur was gone, but it did succeed in fueling his anger. Anger at Colm, anger at Micah and Pearson, and anger at himself for being so careless. He’d  _ let  _ this happened. He’d been so caught up with his own problems, with the grudge he held against Colm, it hadn’t even crossed his mind that Arthur could be in danger. 

And now, on top of everything, all the screw ups that just left Arthur doubting him, Dutch couldn’t even find him. He couldn’t even get a single lead. 

The only thing that kept him going was the idea that Arthur was still alive, that he was strong enough to survive, that Colm hadn’t already killed him. Because Arthur couldn’t be dead, not now, not like this. Dutch couldn’t take that. 

Dutch looked down at the body at his feet, the dead O’driscoll who had stayed stubbornly silent up until Dutch had given up and fired, putting an end to his wasted existence. 

He saw red, his guns held unsteadily in his shaking hands. Nobody was talking, no one knew anything. He had nothing. Almost four days and he was right where he started. 

The thundering of horses broke through the silence and Dutch spun, guns at the ready. He dropped his weapon when he recognized the riders, Charles and Javier, looking just as tired and angry as Dutch felt. He kept forgetting he wasn’t the only one hurting. 

But there was something in the way they were riding, something in the way the two men were looking at Dutch as they approached. Dutch risked letting himself feel a spark of new hope, desperate as it was. 

“We got something,” Charles called. His shirt and face were stained with blood, and Dutch was fairly certain it wasn’t his. “One of them talked, said something about a camp set up a little over a week ago.” 

“It’s not far,” Javier jumped in. “Maybe an hour ride from here.” 

Dutch was already moving towards The Count, his heart racing and his head spinning. “Then let’s go.” 

Charles frowned. “We should get more men--” 

“There’s no  _ time  _ Charles,” Dutch snapped. “Javier, lead the way. The three of us can take a couple of O’driscolls.”

“Yes, but--” 

“Arthur’s been there almost four days,” Dutch said. “Four days in the hands of that gang. I’m not leaving him there a second longer now come  _ on _ .” 

He knew he was being unreasonable, but at the moment he didn’t care. He sent a silent prayer to a god he didn’t believe in that Arthur could hold on just a little bit longer. 

The three of them rode side by side, and Dutch didn’t miss the glance Charles and Javier shared when they thought he wasn’t looking. Dutch gave The Count a kick, and the they rode as fast as their horses could manage, the crisp wind beating at their faces. 

“Dutch...” Javier ventured. 

“How much further?” 

Javier hesitated, watching Dutch warily. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky a a golden orange, splattered with thin, stringy gray clouds. 

“We’re almost there,” he said carefully. “But...Dutch, like you said, it’s been four days. You know Arthur might not be…” he trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. Charles stared straight ahead, silent, and Dutch swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. 

“When we get there,” Dutch said, his voice low. “You boys take out everyone you see. No one left alive, got it?” 

Charles and Javier nodded, determined, and Dutch felt a swell of pride. He’d picked the right men to ride with.  

“What if Arthur isn’t here?” Charles asked. It was a valid question, but that didn’t mean Dutch wanted to hear it. 

“Then we keep looking,” Dutch said, putting an end to the discussion. They rode in silence, the thunderous hooves beating in time to Dutch’s heart. 

Dutch saw light in the distance, the orange glow of lanterns and campfire. As they drew closer he started to hear voices, obnoxious laughter and bickering that could only be Colm’s boys. 

They dismounted, leaving the horses in the trees, and crept to the edge of the camp, and took cover. 

There were two O’driscolls standing by the trees, and Dutch held his breath, straining to hear their conversation. The more he listened, however, the more he lost his grip on what little control he still had. 

“Gonna be great to see the Van der Linde gang go down once and for all,” the bearded O’driscoll said. His friend, thin and clean shaven, nodded in agreement. 

“Yeah. But is one guy really gonna do that much?” 

The other shrugged. “Colm seemed to think so. Guess he’s important to Dutch or whatever. Can’t imagine why.” 

“Colm knows what he’s doing,” the thin one said. “I mean, the guy was fun up until he stopped talking. But if I was Dutch I wouldn’t risk a damn thing for him.” 

“Seems to me that’s what Dutch is doing,” the bearded one said. “Probably not even looking. I bet Morgan knows it to.” 

That was the final straw. They thought Dutch didn’t  _ care?  _ They didn’t think Arthur was worth Dutch’s time? Wasn’t worth saving? He wasn’t Colm O’driscoll, his men weren’t just numbers. They were family. And Arthur was family in every sense but blood. 

He looked to make sure Charles and Javier were ready, and Dutch stopped holding back. Pulling out his guns, Dutch stood and put a bullet in both the O’driscolls before they could even register he was there. 

The two gunshots alerted the rest of the camp. Dutch gave the order to spread out, to find cover, and the shootout began. 

There were too many of them. It was nothing the three of them couldn’t handle, they’d faced worse before, and, a majority of the gang was taken out fairly quickly. Colm didn’t recruit based on skill. 

It was just taking too long. 

The more time he spent ending the lives of men that didn’t deserve to live in the first place, that had hurt his family, was more time he spent still not getting to Arthur. Still not knowing if he was alive, if he was even still here. 

Finally, the shooting began to quiet, and Dutch aimed his next shot at the man’s leg. He ditched his cover and loomed over the man, ignoring the background sounds of Charles and Javier finishing off their opponents. The downed O’driscoll froze when he met Dutch’s cold gaze. 

“Please, don--” 

“Where is he?” Dutch’s gun was in the man’s face, pressing against his forehead. He gripped the O'driscolls jaw, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Where  _ is  _ he?” 

The O’driscoll blanched. “W-who?” 

“You know damn well  _ who,”  _ Dutch growled. He narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip on his gun. “Now talk, or I swear to god--” 

“The, the cellar!” he practically squeaked.”W-we, we, we were keeping him in t-the cellar! Over There! Please, please don’t--!” 

Dutch fired, not bothering to watch the O’driscoll fall to the ground before sprinting across the field, skidding to a stop at the cellar doors. They were closed but unlocked, and a wave of uneasiness washed over him. 

The idea that Arthur wasn’t here terrified him, but Dutch was almost more afraid of what he might find. What state Arthur was in, if he was even…

Dutch pushed the thoughts down, grabbed a lantern from the table, and opened the doors. The rickety wood stairs squealed under his weight, and Dutch shivered against the frigid temperature. He held up the lantern, illuminating the walls. His eyes adjusted and he stopped, frozen on the bottom step. 

“Oh,  _ god. _ ” 

In the middle of the room was Arthur, hanging by his feet like an  _ animal _ , covered in blood and bruises and...and he wasn’t moving. 

“No,  _ Arthur _ .” He’d been too late. He couldn’t save him. Arthur was…His legs felt like water, the rage washed away by a fierce, sorrowful denial. “Please, god, please,  _ no… _ ”

Dutch set down the lantern and moved forward on shaky legs, reaching out his hand. He wasn’t going to fall apart, not here. Not in an O’driscoll camp. Dutch put a hand on Arthur’s unmoving chest, his fingers just barely grazing the ruined material of his shirt. 

The reaction was immediate. A tiny gasp escaped Arthur’s lips and he tried to pull away, his face scrunching up in pain. Dutch pulled away like he’d been burnt, but fear was replaced by crushing relief. 

“Oh, thank god.” 

Arthur didn’t react to his voice, didn’t show any sign that he recognized Dutch. Or even knew he was here. Dutch moved for the ropes on Arthur’s legs, digging into the skin of his ankles. He pulled out his knife, carefully positioning himself so Arthur wouldn’t fall on his neck or hit his head, and cut through the restraints. 

Dutch did everything he could to soften Arthur’s fall, but it clearly didn’t do much. Arthur cried out as soon as he started moving, strangled gasping filling the cellar as Dutch helped him to the floor. 

“Oh god, Arthur,” Dutch said, his heart aching more and more with each horrible noise. “ You’re ok, son. I got you, you’re going to be ok. I found you.” 

He needed Arthur to know he was here. Arthur needed to realize he was safe, that no one would hurt him anymore. He carefully removed the cloth around Arthur’s head and wrapped a hand around his forehead. He needed Arthur to see him. 

“Arthur. Open your eyes.  _ Please,  _ son. Look at me.” 

And Arthur seemed to hear him. Slowly, too slow for Dutch’s liking, Arthur’s eyes opened. It seemed like even that hurt beyond belief, and his eyes were wandering and unfocused. But then Arthur’s eyes locked onto him, pained and scared, and Dutch found himself smiling.

“That’s it son,” Dutch encouraged gently, hoping Arthur couldn’t feel him shaking. “Stay awake for me, Arthur. Stay with me.” 

Running the risk of breaking the weak connection he’d managed to achieve, Dutch turned his head to the open doors. 

“Charles! Javier! I got him, get the horses ready!  _ Hurry!”  _ Arthur flinched, grimacing in pain, and Dutch quickly turned back to him. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Arthur. We’re going to help you, I promise.” 

Arthur moved his head into a weak nod. He swallowed and opened his mouth, struggling to speak, and Dutch leaned closer. 

“I...I told you it was a set up…” 

Dutch nodded, hating how much pain it put Arthur through to talk. “I know. I know, Arthur. God, I’m so sorry. You’re safe now.”

Arthur was still watching him, and he almost looked...confused. “You...you came for me…”

Dutch’s heart sunk. Had Arthur believed them? Had he really thought Dutch wasn’t coming? They’d gotten in his head. Arthur had been hanging here, tortured for days, thinking that Dutch didn’t care. That he wasn’t looking. 

“Of course I did,” Dutch said, his anger returning. He was going to  _ kill  _ Colm. “You knew I would, didn’t you, son?” 

Arthur’s eyes wavered. “They said…” 

“They  _ lied _ . _ ”  _ His anger wasn’t doing anything good, Arthur was too out of it to understand, but Dutch couldn’t help himself. He needed Arthur to know how scared he had been. “Arthur, I never stopped looking for you. Do you understand me? Not for one goddamn second. I killed them, Arthur. Everyone who hurt you, they’re dead. Every single one. And I’m going to hunt Colm down and he is going to pay. I promise you that.”

Arthur watched him, blinking, like he was trying to understand, struggling to comprehend. He opened his mouth, fighting to push the words out. 

“I...I’m not doing so well, Dutch.” 

And just like that the anger was gone, fear and uncertainty returning with a vengeance. Charles and Javier were outside the cellar, calling to him, but Dutch had eyes only for Arthur. His gaze dropped, Arthur’s eyes slipping shut. 

“No, no,  _ no _ ,” Dutch said, frantic, leaning over Arthur who didn’t seem to hear. “Stay awake. Just for a little longer, you need to stay with me. Please, son.” 

But it was no use. Dutch could see the last of Arthur’s strength leave him. His eyes closed and he went completely limp in Dutch’s hold. 

“Horses are ready,” Charles said from behind him, hovering on the stairs. “Arthur, is...is he--?” 

“He’s alive,” Dutch said, listening to the shallow, ragged gasps of Arthur’s breathing. “But we need to get him to camp.  _ Now.”  _

Dutch hooked one arm around Arthur’s legs, another behind his back and lifted, keeping him close to his chest. Arthur’s breath hitched, despite how gentle Dutch was trying to be. 

It was easier to carry Arthur up the stairs than Dutch had thought it would be. Colm had no doubt been starving him. 

“My god,” Charles breathed, watching in horror as Dutch approached The Count. Javier said nothing, but he looked like he was going to be sick. 

“Let’s get him out of here.” Dutch, slow and careful, positioned Arthur on The Count and mounted beside him, trying to keep Arthur from moving too much. 

Nobody spoke on the journey back, all three of them pushing their horses to their limit. The Count didn’t protest, seeming to understand, and they arrived back at camp in less than an hour, the moon beginning its ascent into the inky black sky. 

“Miss Grimshaw!” Dutch yelled as soon as they broke through the bracken. “Reverend Swanson! We need help!” 

The camp emerged from the tents, wide eyed and alert. There were hands on Arthur in a second, gently lifting him off the horse and bringing him to the ground. Arthur cried out in his sleep, struggling weakly. 

“Careful,” Dutch warned, dismounting. “He’s been--” 

“We’ll take care of it, Dutch,” Swanson said. 

“I can--” 

“Dutch.” There was a hand on his shoulder, keeping him back. Dutch turned, his anger bubbling to the surface, but it quickly sank again when he saw Hosea. “You found him. You got him back. Let them work.” 

Dutch, reluctantly, nodded. He let Hosea lead him away, watching as Arthur was carried into one of the tents and his injuries were looked over by worried faces. 

“You’ve done everything you can Hosea said, leading him towards his tent. Dutch followed, absently, eyes still on Arthur. “You need to rest now. You haven’t slept since he went missing.” 

Dutch nodded, the exhaustion from the last few days suddenly hitting him full force. He wanted to be by Arthur’s side, to see for himself that he was going to be ok, but Hosea was guiding him into his own tent before Dutch could find it in him to protest.

“Wake me if there’s any change,” he demanded, and Hosea nodded. “Anything at all. I need to--” 

“I know, Dutch,” Hosea said softly. “I will. But try to relax. Arthur’s safe. You got him back.” 

Dutch nodded and Hosea left him alone, closing the flap of the tent on his way out. Despite the worries in his racing mind, Dutch was asleep the second his head hit the pillow. 

  
  


Arthur was asleep for nearly two days, which Miss Grimshaw assured was perfectly normal. But she had admitted that for the first few hours, they weren’t sure Arthur was going to make it. 

He was littered with bruises, dehydrated, sick, but the bullet wound in his right shoulder had been their man concern. But, with Hosea’s help, they’d done all they could and the outlook was hopeful. 

The fever was their last cause for alarm. 

Arthur was hot to the touch, his face flushed and sweaty. But he was shivering, his teeth chattering while he slept like they were back up in the mountains. 

Dutch stayed by his side, offering empty assurances to anyone who poked their head in. He tried to red, to focus on anything else, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax until Arthur opened his eyes. 

He kept moving in his sleep, twitching, shaking his head, muttering incoherently. A few times he grew violent, thrashing and hitting, groaning each time he pulled at one of his injuries. Dutch would try to calm him, assuring Arthur he was safe until he quieted down. 

“Dutch?” 

Dutch’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his name. It was frail, quiet, but unmistakably Arthur. Dutch left his chair and crouched by the bed, smiling when Arthur sluggishly blinked his eyes open. 

“I see you finally decided to wake up,” Dutch teased lightly. He thought of calling for Miss Grimshaw, but quickly decided against it. She needed her rest, and Arthur didn’t seem to be in any immediate pain. “How are you feeling?” 

“Dutch?” 

“Right here, son.” Dutch positioned himself so Arthur could see him better, offering a gentle smile. “Feeling better?” 

“Dutch?” Arthur’s breathing started to pick up, and Dutch felt panic spike in his chest. “ _ Dutch, wh--?”  _

“Arthur, I’m right here,” Dutch tried. He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, pulling back when it only made him flinch. “Do you hear me? Look at me, I’m right here.” 

Arthur shook his head, and Dutch noticed how glassy and unfocused his eyes were. Dutch was right in front of him, and Arthur was staring through him like Dutch wasn’t even in the room. 

“It’s the fever.” Hosea was suddenly in the tent, crouching beside Dutch. He was always a calming presence, even in a time like this. “He doesn’t know you’re here, Dutch. He probably still thinks he’s in that cellar.” 

Hosea frowned, slowly reaching a hand out to touch Arthur’s forehead. He pulled back when Arthur jumped, gasping, struggling to get away. 

“What can we do?” Dutch asked. 

Hosea shook his head. “Stay with him. Talk to him. Try to keep him from hurting himself until it passes.” 

Dutch nodded. He grabbed his chair, brought it closer, and planted himself beside Arthur’s fidgeting body. His eyes had closed again, but Dutch could see them moving, darting around behind his eyelids. 

“Arthur,” Dutch said, soft but strong. “I’m right here. Right here, Arthur. It’s me. It’s Dutch. Can you hear me?” 

Arthur shook his head. His mouth was moving, his voice less than a raspy whisper, and Dutch leaned in close to hear him. 

“Please,” Arthur begged. “Please, please...no, dont...no...he’s not coming, he’s  _ not coming.  _ He won’t come. He’s not…” 

Dutch sucked in a breath, his chest suddenly feeling tight, as he realized what Arthur was saying. He felt Hosea’s eyes on him, sympathetic and sad, but he knew better than to say anything. 

“I’m coming, Arthur,” Dutch said. He scooted his chair closer, not wanting to crowd Arthur but needing him to hear. “I’m coming for you, son. I promise. I’m not leaving you. You hear me? I’m on my way, I swear.” 

Dutch continued his mantra, and eventually Arthur’s pleas, his denials, quieted and thankfully stopped. He stilled, finally looking almost peaceful as he fell into a real sleep. 

 

Dutch jolted awake, groggy and scattered as he realized he’d dozed off at some point, still in the chair beside Arthur’s bed. He blinked sleep out of his eyes and ran a hand over his face, the other through his hair. 

“You look worse than I do.” 

Dutch jumped, seeing Arthur awake in his bed, watching him. He didn’t sound much better than he had last night, but his eyes looked clear and aware. He didn’t seem confused or delirious this time either, and he was actually able to focus on Dutch. 

“You clearly haven’t looked in a mirror lately,” Dutch shot back, scooting his chair back a bit. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Peachy.” 

Dutch smiled, letting himself feel truly relieved for the first time in  while. “ At least you can actually see me this time.” 

Arthur frowned. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Dutch cleared his throat, remembering how Arthur had been looking right at him, still convinced he wouldn’t come for him. “You were just, uh, pretty out of it for a while. How much do you remember?” 

Arthur furrowed his brow, reaching up to touch the angry bruises on his face. He winced, bringing his hand back down. 

“I remember being the O’driscolls new favorite past time,” he said, and Dutch had to fight to keep from getting angry all over again. That wasn’t what Arthur needed right now. “I...think I remember you cutting me down, trying to keep me awake. Thanks for, uh, coming to get me by the way.” 

“You don’t need to thank me, Arthur,” Dutch said. He was silent a moment, debating with himself. “You didn’t think I was coming.” 

Arthur’s eyes shot up to meet his gaze, quickly flickering back to the ceiling. “Oh, come on. Of course I knew--” 

“You told me,” Dutch intercepted, effectively silencing him. “In fact, you  _ kept  _ telling me. I don’t even think you realized it was me rescuing you at first.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Arthur agreed, surprising Dutch with how quickly he relented. I just...I don’t know, I lost track of time and I let them get in my head. I’m sorry, ok? And hell, I was stupid enough to let myself get captured in the first place. I would’ve understood if you didn’t want to--” 

_ “Arthur,”  _ Dutch snapped, and Arthur fell silent, still staring skyward. “Arthur, look at me, please.” 

Arthur obeyed warily, waiting. Dutch sighed, smiling sadly. He’d already said what needed to be said, but now Arthur was truly able to hear it. He just hated that it even needed to be said in the first place. 

“Listen to me,” he started. “I was  _ coming  _ for you, Arthur. None of this was your fault, but I would have found you even if it was. I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner, but I never stopped looking. Do you understand me? Never. Don’t you ever  _ dare  _ think otherwise.” 

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but Dutch wasn’t done. The stress, pain, fear, anger, built up over the past week, was all spilling out. 

“You looked dead, you know.” he said. “I got there, I finally found you, and I thought you were dead. I thought I was too late to save you. And then to find out that you’d given up on me, that you thought I didn’t  _ care?  _ What if you died, Arthur? What if you died thinking that?” he took a breath, voice softening. “You’re like a son to me, Arthur. So don’t think like that. Understand?” 

Arthur nodded, stunned, and cleared his throat with a grimace. “I’m sorry.” 

Dutch sighed, realizing he’d wound up yelling at Arthur, half dead and barely awake, and had probably only succeeded in making him feel worse about the whole nightmarish situation. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Arthur. I...You get some rest. I’ll get you some food.” 

Arthur nodded again and looked away, letting himself sink into his pillow. Dutch stood pulling back the flap of the tent. 

“Dutch,” Arthur called, his voice as strong as he could manage. Dutch met his eyes, finally clear and focused. “I knew you were coming.” 

Dutch smiled, the tension in the air finally dissipating, and Arthur copied his relieved grin. “Good,” he said, and left to go find Pearson. 

Things were far from perfect, and maybe they never would be. Colm was still out there with Arthur’s blood on his hands, but somehow that  was the last thing on Dutch’s mind. They were safe, for now, and that was all that mattered. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Arthur wasn’t fine. At least, not according to Dutch. 

Everything, admittedly, still hurt like hell. His shoulder was constantly on fire, and if it weren’t for Hosea and the way he managed to ease the pain as best he could Arthur would’ve requested that Bill cut his arm clean off. 

He still flinched whenever someone touched him, no matter how gentle. It didn’t matter what it was, a soft touch on the hand from one of the girls, or a pat on the shoulder from John or Charles. Arthur knew he was safe, knew Dutch wouldn’t let Colm touch him again, but it didn’t stop the drop of his stomach, the cold fear planted in his bruised chest. 

The feeling of hanging upside down, helpless, stuck in a constant state of agony at the mercy of those men still lingered, their threats and laughter echoing when he was alone. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t fine, or at least getting better. It had been over a week since he’d been rescued, the entire camp didn’t have to look at him like he would keel over at any moment every time he left his tent. 

There was always somebody close by, no matter where he went. Arthur could just imagine Dutch, too worried for his own good, giving that order behind Arthur’s back. If he so much as stumbled there was someone at his side in a second, muttering reassurances he didn’t need, and gently guiding him someplace to sit down. 

Arthur hated the way they catered to his every need, like he was a defenseless child. Even  _ Uncle  _ had given up his chair at one point, scurrying off to get Arthur a bowl of Pearson’s stew. 

It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d been hurt. Sure, he’d never been kidnapped and tortured for four days straight, but he was fine. He didn’t want to be helpless again. 

“How’re you feeling?” 

And if Arthur had to hear that question one more goddamn time he would march right back up to Colm O’driscoll and beg to be tied back up. 

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ he snapped before he even registered that it was Sadie talking to him. “I’ve  _ been  _ fine. Look me at. Walking and talking like the rest of you. I’m fine. So lay off, ok?” 

Sadie just tilted her head. “Whatever you say, Arthur. If you need me to--” 

“ _ No,  _ just--” he stopped himself, holding up his hands when Sadie crossed her arms. It wasn’t her fault, and she was the last person he wanted to anger. He didn’t need another injury to recover from. “I’m sorry. Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna head out and get some food, and everybody can just forget I was ever hurt, alright?” 

“Dutch ain’t gonna like that.” 

Arthur pulled on his coat, careful not to wince when it pulled at the still healing injuries littered across his still aching body. “Yeah, well, Dutch has practically kept me prisoner here for over a week. He’ll just have to get over it.” 

“I’ll just have to get over what?” 

Arthur jumped, his hand immediately going to his shoulder as Dutch suddenly appeared behind him. He returned Sadie’s bemused look with a steely glare and turned around. 

“I’m going out,” Arthur said, forcing himself to hold back a groan of frustration when Dutch crossed his arms over his chest. 

“The hell you are.” He looked over Arthur’s shoulder at the spectating blonde. “Mrs. Adler, will you give us a moment?” 

Sadie snorted, turning and heading for the campfire. “Good luck,” she called, and Arthur wasn’t sure who she was talking to. 

“I’m fine,” Arthur insisted the minute she was out of earshot. “I can go hunting for one goddamn hour, Dutch.”  

“It’s only been a week--” 

“Exactly!” Arthur did his best to keep his voice down, painfully aware that yelling would only worsen the soreness in his chest. “A  _ week  _ of bed rest, letting everyone treat me like I’m  _ dying _ \--” 

“You  _ were  _ dying, Arthur!” Dutch shouted, clearly having no interest in matching Arthur’s tone. He pretended not to see the turning of heads from other gang members, the alarmed but curious eyes now locked onto them. “We  _ talked  _ about this, you  _ looked  _ dead. Four damn days and you almost didn’t make it. You could've been killed, begging and screaming in your sleep, by a fever from a goddamn bullet wound!” 

“Well, I’m still standing!” 

Dutch scoffed, harsh and degrading. “Hardly.” 

And despite himself, Arthur felt his cheeks flush red. “I can--” 

“ _ No,  _ Arthur,” Dutch growled, leaving no room for further argument. “You can’t.” 

And Arthur, feeling like a frustrated child just scolded by his parents, turned away from Dutch without another word and stalked back to his tent. It was hardly a dignified exit, and he could practically  _ hear  _ Dutch’s eyeroll, but right now he didn’t care. 

As soon as the flap of the tent closed, Arthur went right back to feeling cramped and suffocated. Trapped, just like he’d been in that cellar. The camp wasn’t much better with everyone watching him like he was a prisoner all over again. 

He risked a glance in the mirror, scowling at his own reflection. Dutch was right, he hardly looked any better than he had when he  _ was _ dying. His face was pale, thin, and sickly, his eyes tired and bloodshot. Arthur ran a hand through his unkempt hair and overgrown beard, feeling filthy and useless. 

His tent opened without a warning and Arthur stiffened, ready for Dutch’s disapproving glare and awaiting lecture, but instead he saw John, looking troubled and hesitant. 

“What do you want, Marston?” 

John cleared his throat. “You...uh, I mean...you don’t look so good.” 

“I’m fine,” Arthur insisted for what felt like the millionth time. “But apparently Dutch thinks differently.” 

“Yeah, I saw that,” John said, and Arthur stared at the ground. “I talked to Dutch, told him you were probably feeling pretty cooped up and that it should be fine for you to go out if I come with you.” 

“Jesus,” Arthur muttered. “So I’m only allowed to leave camp if you babysit me?” 

“I’m not--look, I get that you want some space. You’ve had a crazy few days. I’m just coming to make sure you don’t fall on your face. Alright?” 

Arthur sighed. Admittedly, even spending alone time with John sounded more appealing than being stuck here any longer. He nodded, managed to get to his feet, and pushed past John. 

“Fine. Another bruises on my face I could end up as ugly as you. But you keep your mouth shut back there, got it?”

“Whatever you say.” 

The rest of the camp had the decency to pretend like they didn’t even see Arthur leave his tent and head for his horse, but he didn’t miss their subtle glances, curious but worried, and Arthur felt his face burn.  

Mounting was a bigger challenge than he’d thought it would be, and Arthur could feel John’s worried gaze boring into the back of his skull, just restraining himself from rushing over to help. 

He finally managed to reach his saddle, fighting back a gasp as the movement tugged at his injuries, and Arthur was immensely glad Dutch was out of sight. The past week he’d revealed his uncanny ability to tell whenever Arthur was in any kind of pain, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. 

As soon as they left camp, Arthur clutching the reins in sweaty and trembling hands, he immediately felt something loosen in his chest, his breathing growing easier. It didn’t get rid of the lingering pain from his countless beatings, but the quiet air and lack of staring started to set his mind at ease. Even with John, riding just a few paces behind. 

“Arthur?” he called, and Arthur immediately took it back. He should have known John would be incapable of keeping his mouth shut. 

“Not really in the mood to talk, Marston.” 

“Then listen for a second.” John’s horse sped up, slowing only when he reached Arthur’s side. “I think you need to take it easy on Dutch.” 

“Oh god.” If Arthur couldn’t already imagine the pain going any faster would put his beaten body through he would have cut through the trees and ditched John right then and there. “I don’t want to get into this with you.” 

“He’s just worried about you,” John argued. 

“Yeah, I got that,” Arthur said. “That doesn’t mean he has to treat me like I’m helpless. All I want is to put this whole thing behind us. But it’s like he still sees a corpse whenever he looks at me.” 

John was silent, and Arthur thought that he’d actually gotten John to give in and shut up. But after a moment he sighed, and Arthur risked a glance at the younger man. 

“I think he does,” he said. “You weren’t...you weren’t here, Arthur.” 

“Yeah, I was a little busy getting kidnapped.” 

“I mean you didn’t see what he was like,” John said. “Dutch...Dutch loves all of us. I know he’d die for anyone in this gang. But after you disappeared...I’d never seen him like that. We were all worried, but Dutch went crazy. When he said he never stopped looking, he meant it. Even Hosea couldn’t force him to eat or drink. And it didn’t get much better after we got you back.” 

John took a breath and Arthur gazed at the treetops, jaw clenched, listening silently. 

“He thought he lost you. He’s  _ terrified  _ that he might still lose you. I don’t know if its because its Colm and he’s remembering what happened to Annabel...but I’ve never seen Dutch act like that. I’ve never seen him so scared. So...yeah. Take it easy on him.” 

Arthur said nothing, his white knuckle grip on the reins loosening. Dutch had looked awful the few times Arthur had seen him after first waking up, the exhaustion and worry strikingly obvious. 

But he was  _ alive.  _ He’d survived. Dutch had rescued him. And keeping him in camp was only making Arthur feel worse. Like his freedom had been ripped away once again. 

Arthur didn’t say any of that aloud, instead throwing a sly smirk at John. “You were worried about me, Marston?” 

“Unbelievable,” John scoffed, but Arthur knew him well enough to know he wasn’t quite done, and he braced himself for another lecture. “You know you’re safe, right? I know keeping you in camp might not be the best way to help you...recover but...we got you out. Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore.” 

And Arthur hadn’t realized just how badly he’d needed to hear those words said out loud. He’d known, of course, Dutch had quickly drilled that into his mind. But hearing John say it to him, somehow both forcefully and gentle, finally set some of the nagging doubts and fears in the back of his head at rest. 

“I know,” Arthur said, nodding. “Thanks.” 

“No problem.” 

They rode in silence, farther away from camp than Dutch would probably be comfortable with, but John said nothing. He seemed to understand that Arthur needed the distance, and went back to riding a ways behind. 

They left the forest behind and started on the quiet, open country path. Arthur had planned on hunting, something small he could do to make up for all the time he’d been stuck in bed and using up supplies, but right now he was perfectly content to just keep riding, breathing in the late spring air, and let the pain fade to the back of his mind. 

There were three other men riding towards them from the other end of the path, the one in the middle riding a few paces ahead. Arthur thought nothing of it at first, until he looked closer and could just make out stringy gray hair and a dark gray tie. 

He pulled his horse to a sudden stop, the pounding of his heart drowning out the sound of John pulling up beside him. 

“Is that--” 

“I think so.”  

The way John’s breath hitched only worsened Arthur’s panic. Fear rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. He felt dizzy and cornered, frozen in place as he watched the horses come closer. 

“Head back into the trees,” John said, confident and strong, and Arthur forced himself to latch onto his voice. “Get them as far away from camp as possible and then try to lose them.” 

Arthur nodded, pulling on his reins and following close behind as John led them both back into the forest. Arthur couldn’t fight in this state, especially not against Colm. And while he trusted John, admired him even, a shootout would end with them both dead. 

The thundering steps of pursuing horses filled the air, crashing through the bracken behind them, and Arthur’s heart sank. He wasn’t safe. Colm had found him. And now John was going to go down alongside him because he was too weak to even leave camp by himself.

“We should split up,” Arthur called, the idea making him sick, kicking his horse as John sped up. “Try to confuse them.” 

“Absolutely not,” John said, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel selfishly relieved. John was the only thing keeping him from falling into a complete panic. “We stick together.” 

John kept glancing over his shoulder, and Arthur hoped he wasn’t betraying how much pain the ride was putting him through, pulling at every single bruise and cut, his shoulder in burning agony. 

Judging by John’s constantly deepening frown, Arthur clearly wasn’t doing a very good job at masking it. Right now, however, he was beyond caring. 

A shot rang out, making the pain in Arthur’s shoulder flare up. He hadn’t been hit, but suddenly John was gone, his horse falling to the ground on its now bloody side. 

“John!” Arthur yanked at his reins, his horse skidding to a stop. John seemed relatively unharmed, other than the horse on top of his foot, the pained noises from the animal alerting the pursuers to their location. 

“I’m alright!” John called, furiously waving Arthur away as he dismounted, stifling a groan when he hit the ground. “Keep going!” 

Arthur didn’t even grant that spectacularly moronic idea with a response, instead kneeling on the ground to help John lift the wounded horse  just enough to get his leg free. Arthur was pretty sure John had done most of the work, but it still left him shaking and drained.

John seemed fine, scrambling to his feet with little effort to which Arthur was immensely grateful. He wasn’t sure there would have been much he could do to help John when he was barely standing himself. 

Before either of them could even make a move for Arthur’s horse there was the crashing of leaves and the pounding of hooves, and Arthur found himself staring in Colm O’driscoll’s eyes once again as his horse slowed to a stop in front of him. 

“Hello again, Mr. Morgan,” Colm greeted, cheerful, like he was feeding off Arthur’s blatant fear. 

There was a hand across his chest, and Arthur’s view of Colm and his men was blocked by a head of shaggy dark hair. John, the  _ idiot _ , was planting himself in front of Arthur like some kind of shield. 

Like it would somehow stop Colm from putting a bullet through both of their heads. 

“Mr. Marston,” Colm greeted like the three of them were old friends. “Beautiful day for a ride, don’t you agree? Funny we should all run into each other. Arthur, I didn’t think you’d be back on your feet just yet.” 

Arthur tried not to flinch at the memory Colm’s voice inexorably invoked. From the hand on his chest, Arthur could feel John stiffen. 

“Leave us alone, Colm,” John said with with barely controlled anger. “Get out of here and nobody has to die.”  

Colm laughed, dry and raspy as he waved his gun around, and his men quickly followed suit. Arthur swallowed, hating the sound, vividly remembering the beatings, how happy his pain had made those men. In front of him, John didn’t even blink when Colm spoke. 

“You sure about that, boy?” he asked, grinning. “I see why Dutch likes you boys. Stupidly brave until the end. How  _ is _ Dutch?” 

Arthur and John remained silent, both waiting for the inevitable firing of Colm’s revolver. If Arthur could force his legs to move he would have shoved John aside and faced Colm head on. But all brave words died in his tightening throat. 

“Tell you what,” Colm said. “You let me have Morgan back, and I’ll let you live. You and that pretty little girl you like so much. What was her name?” 

“Why the hell would I do that?” 

Colm shrugged. “Because our time together was cut short. Wasn’t it, Arthur? My boys miss you, you know. The few that were away when your men came along and slaughtered nearly my entire camp. I promised them they’d get to finish you off. Slow, of course, don’t you worry.” Colm’s smile widened when Arthur went pale. “What do you say, John? Is he really worth dying for?” 

Despite how hard Arthur was trying to hold it together, he felt the the overwhelming fear returning, bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill over. Colm was going to take him back. He wasn’t going to kill him. He was going to kidnap Arthur all over again, force him to endure the treatment again. Drain him slowly, make him feel helpless. And this time, Dutch wouldn’t find him. 

It was selfish of Arthur to be terrified of John taking the deal, because of course he  _ should  _ take it. Arthur wasn’t that important. If John had a chance to live, to keep everyone else out of danger, there was no reason he should even be hesitating. He was the one with the family to worry about. Colm taking Arthur seemed inevitable. John dying didn’t have to be. 

But John only straightened, his free hand hovering over his gun as Colm watched him, looking almost amused. 

“Go to hell,” he snarled, and Colm pouted, hardly looking disappointed as he cocked his gun. 

“Have it your way, John,” he said, and suddenly Arthur’s feet were moving on their own, his mind feeling heavy and disconnected as he pushed past John on quivering legs, starting towards the O’driscolls without looking back, hands held at his sides. 

“Arthur!” 

“Leave him alone, Colm,” Arthur said, ignoring John’s protests, hating how pathetic his own voice sounded. “I’ll come quietly. Let John go and you can do whatever you want to me.” 

“That won’t be necessary, Arthur.”

The new voice came out of nowhere. Dutch and The Count broke through the bracken and pulled to a stop beside John, followed closely by Charles, Bill, and Javier, weapons aimed. For the first time, Colm’s smile dropped. 

“John, are you hurt?” Dutch asked, smiling when John shook his head. “Good. Go with Charles. Colm, if you don’t mind stepping away from my boy, nobody has to get hurt today.” 

His easy going tone was nothing more than an act, Arthur could see that much when their gazes met. Dutch’s eyes were dangerously cold, doing everything he could to let Arthur see his unspoken promise. Colm wasn’t getting him again. Dutch was going to get him out of here safely. 

Arthur turned back to the O’driscolls, not putting it past Colm to shoot him in the back while he was distracted. There were still three men with guns just a couple feet away, and Arthur was unarmed. They could take out Arthur in a second if Colm decided to risk it. 

“Put your gun  _ away _ ,  Colm,” Dutch said, turning back to the O’driscolls. “As much as I’d love to end this once and for all, I don’t think now’s the best time for a shoot out.” 

“Maybe not for you,” Colm argued, glancing at Arthur, the one thing Dutch was worried about getting caught in the crossfire. “What’s stopping me from putting a bullet in him right now?” Arthur didn’t have to look away from Colm’s face to know the gun was trained on him, finger on the trigger. He held his breath in the silence, waiting.

“There’ll be a bullet in your head before he hits the ground,” Dutch snarled, and Arthur decided that was possibly the least comforting thing he could have heard right now. 

“Die taking someone else from Dutch Van der Linde?” Colm said, a little too gleeful for Arthur’s liking. “Leaving him heartbroken once again? Just like after that poor girl? Seems worth it to me.” 

“You willing to die over this, Colm?” Dutch challenged, his voice hard and icy, and Arthur watched as Colm’s eyes flickered, calculating. 

Colm didn’t drop his gun, but his finger finally moved away from the trigger. He looked away from Dutch, narrowing his eyes down at Arthur. 

“Go back to Dutch, boy,” he sneered. “We’ll see each other again.” 

Arthur heard the sound of Dutch dismounting, his boots hitting the grass, and tried to focus on the noises rather than the O’driscoll’s eyes that seemed to stare straight into his soul. 

“Arthur, back up towards me,” Dutch instructed, and Arthur nodded, knowing better than to turn his back on the armed man before him. Quieter, Dutch added, “Come on, son.” 

Arthur took a step back, then another, and another, hands kept defenselessly at his sides, eyes never leaving Colm, still holding his gun. 

There was a hand on his arm, firm and steadying, and Dutch pulled him back until he was standing protectively in front of his Arthur, gun aimed at Colm. 

“Are we done?” 

There was another few heartbeats of tense silence where Arthur thought Colm might change his mind and start shooting. 

But the O’driscoll spread his fingers, slowly pointed his gun to the sky, and slipped the weapon back into its pouch. His men quickly did the same. Dutch copied them, giving the O’driscolls a small nod as they turned their horses, disappearing into the forest. 

Everyone waited with bated breath, nobody moving until the sounds of horses faded, finally disappearing completely. Dutch’s shoulders dropped, his body language relaxing, and Arthur opened his mouth as soon as he turned around. 

Dutch ignored him, looking right over Arthur’s shoulders at the rest of the gang on horseback. John had mounted the back of Charles’s horse, and Arthur met both of their eyes as Dutch started speaking. 

“Everyone split up. Don’t want to risk leading them back to camp. Charles, make sure John gets that leg looked at. Arthur, ride with me.” 

The gang turned their horses into the trees, and Arthur suddenly felt immensely uncomfortable standing next to Dutch, the other man still refusing to even look at him. He cleared his throat. 

“Guess, uh, guess today wasn’t the best day to go out after all, huh?”  

Dutch just pinched the bridge of his nose, tilting his head skyward. 

“Good thing I didn’t go alone. Damn. Thank god for John, though. Dumbass was willing to get himself killed over this whole stupid thing. Colm really--” 

_ “Arthur,”  _  Dutch warned. The threatening tone he’d used with Colm was back, and Arthur quickly shut his mouth. Dutch took a breath, rubbing at his eyes. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” Arthur said. As if on cue, his shoulder began to throb again. “I mean, not really. That horse ride didn’t do me any favors.” 

Dutch finally turned to him, looking like he was just barely restraining himself from finishing what Colm started and killing Arthur himself. Arthur was worried Dutch’s jaw was going to shatter from how hard he was clenching it. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He cleared his throat again, gesturing at the awaiting horses. “Do you wanna...uh, should we--” 

“I don’t really care what you do,” Dutch snapped. He sounded more tired than angry, but it still caught Arthur off guard. “If you’d rather go off by yourself and get yourself killed rather than come back to camp, then go right ahead.” 

Dutch moved to walk past Arthur to get to The Count, stiffening when Arthur reached out and grabbed his arm, keeping him back. 

“Dutch, that’s not fair.” 

He said it quietly, too worn down for any malice, but it seemed to be just the thing to set him off. Dutch spun around, eyes wild, shoving away Arthur’s thankfully uninjured arm. It looked like he was about to start yelling, or maybe lose control and actually strike Arthur. 

It only lasted a second. As Dutch seemed to fully focus on Arthur for the first time, any venom in his eyes vanished, his anger melting away, replaced with an exhaustion that rivaled Arthur’s own. He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, the one without the healing bullet wound, brows furrowing. 

“You’re shaking.”

Arthur shrugged, risking a gentle smile. “It’s, uh...it’s been a crazy couple of weeks.” 

Dutch hung his head, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder before pulling away and continuing towards the horses. “I know it has.” 

“How’d you know to come get me?” Arthur asked, following. 

“Charles had been out all day,” Dutch explained, stopping by his horse’s side. John’s horse was long dead, the bullet hitting its heart, and Arthur forced himself to look away. “He came into camp saying he’d seen Colm. Knowing your luck, I was sure you’d run into him.”

Arthur nodded, silently pleased when Dutch let him mount and ride by himself, no matter how much trouble he was clearly having. Arthur followed in The Count’s path, he and Dutch riding in relatively comfortable silence. There was still some lingering tension, and Arthur was still waiting for another argument. 

“You know,” Dutch said suddenly, and Arthur braced himself. “If you’re feeling up for it, maybe you and I could go hunting tomorrow. Somewhere close by. Start slowly getting you back into the action.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure,” Dutch said, nodding. “It’s been a while since we did something just the two of us. I think it’ll help us move on.” He sounded hopeful, maybe even a little desperate, and Arthur found himself smiling. A real smile. It had been a while since he’d done that. 

“I agree,” he said, and the air felt lighter. “That sounds good.” 

They rode into camp, greeting Karen on guard duty. Dutch hitched his horse while Arthur worked on dismounting, freezing when Dutch came around and offered a hand. 

“Nothing wrong with being helped sometimes, son,” Dutch said, and Arthur found himself giving in, the support keeping most of the pain at bay when he hit the ground. “Go rest up. Get some food. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Arthur nodded, watching as Dutch started for his tent. The sun was starting to set, giving the camp a peaceful, orange glow, a gentle breeze ruffling the overhanging treetops. 

“Dutch?” he called just before the man disappeared into his tent. Dutch turned, the golden light of the sunset hitting his face, and Arthur smiled. “Thank you.” 

Dutch matched it, nodding, and retreated to his privacy. It wasn’t long before Arthur heard his music going, and he started to feel at ease. 

Gentle laughs and humming came from the campfire, Pearson’s stew wafted through the air, and Arthur caught sight of Charles and Javier waving him over to join them. Suddenly, being cooped up at camp didn’t seem so bad.  

 


End file.
